Morseregriel
by Morfea
Summary: When Voldemort learns of a new way to become immortal, he seizes the chance. But has he taken everything into account? Has he realised the circumstances and effects? Especially when the parents get involved... [NonHBP compliant, W.I.P.]


_Disclaimer:_ I do not own the Harry Potter universe, nor the Lord of the Rings one. I am merely using them as tools to channel my creativity.

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**Morseregriel  
**_Elessar Evenstar_  
**Prologue**

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A young man, cloaked in darkness, head bowed down towards a dripping altar, chanted quickly under his breath. A golden chalice, dark with life's newly spilt liquid, started to glow, slowly at first, and then began to increase in radiance until it became like a second, much more miniature sun. The dark shadows of the room became more pronounced, and started to dance primitively to the beat of the rhythmic incantation. With an embellished flourish, the young man swung his head up and stopped the pulsating chant. His eyes locked upon the glistening chalice, eyes the same shade as the oozing blood within. The mass of black hair flew wildly about his face, picking up on the throbbing vibes, as his lips parted in anticipation. He picked up the vivid cup, hands trembling with the sheer power that they held. The cup was lifted up to his thin lips, and life's elixir was poured greedily down his white throat, trickles running out of his mouth and staining the bleached skin. His head flung backwards as he gasped for more, and when the last drop got swilled down from his mouth, he knew it was complete. This is what he had been waiting for. This was it. He could feel it working. He felt like he had never done before. He felt alive, and in a sense, he was.

He turned around the room to a previously forgotten corner. There, lay a creature, unconscious and pale, with a newly formed gash upon her slender wrist. A knife lay neglected upon the smooth stone, still marred by the substance that it let out. The young man quickly performed a crude healing spell upon the merciless wound. It would not do to let the creature die, not after so much has been achieved already.

He walked away from the helpless creature, footsteps echoing raggedly throughout the halls, the unmistakable din of metal upon stone. Doors flung open and then shut as he passed, knowing their master's intent with no apparent communication. A pair of men stood to one side, eagerly awaiting instruction. They were surprisingly conflicting, and yet uniformed at the same time. They both wore long, black robes with a large hood and a horrific mask attached, but one was tall and straight, regal and confident, dressed in a much finer quality robe. The other was shorter, greasier, and much more menial looking. Although he appeared menial, he gave of an air which epitomed the old saying that appearances can be deceiving. However, there was a certain amount of richness around him, a sort of twisted wealth, that seemed to stagger around him.

The man with red eyes looked up at the two other men, giving them a calculating look, as if debating within himself about whether or not they would be suitable. After a minute or so, he finally seemed to make his mind up.

"Snape! Malfoy! I want you two to clean up the mess in the corner of the room down the corridor. I trust you know where that isss! Afterwards, bring our… guest… into our most welcoming dungeon. See to it!" He hissed angrily

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Laurëfëa lay, motionless against the stone floor. She had lost count of the time she had been in the wretched place, but she estimated that it had been at least one and a half years; for her body had been impregnated, and, detached from her mind as she was, she had felt the unmistakable life stir within her and grow. Her mind had blocked out any pain, a defensive reflex that without it, she surely would have died already. A multitude of scars graced her scantily clad body; weaving and shimmering in some sort of twisted web, that even the most determined of spiders would never hope to achieve. Her skin had lost the majority of its natural glow, glistening in the night, and now looked sickly pale and thin. The nails attached to her slight hands had grown dark and blue, long translucent claws broken to a jagged and abrupt stop. Her eyes were vast, empty voids, and the usual sparkle in those golden orbs had faded and shrivelled away with despair. Her hair grew down beyond her weak hips, reaching down to her knees. It lay in tattered clumps, thin and weak with hours of endless torture, losing all recognition of a past shine. The only signs of her previous existence were the stunning beauty her body held, and her delicately pointed ears.

It was easier in the beginning, when she still had her faint few hopes to cling to, but these malicious men had stripped even that from her. Now she realised that she might never be free, and embraced the cold, bitter nights now as an escape from the hours of screaming agony she had endured before. Now that she carried that monster's child, they did not harm her, at least, not physically.

She remembered the questions they had demanded of her. Secrets she knew not of, immortality that only came naturally. They had decided to 'force' the answers out physically, determined to find out all she knew and push her beyond her limits.

She had wondered if she would ever escape and go back to her mother's kingdom, but now, that seemed impossible, the only way out was to embrace the darkness, to finally lay down and go to be with her kin in the halls of her father's. But her mothering instincts told her not yet, wait until the babe is born, and then go on.

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The birth was bloody. The weak mother had died from exhaustion once the umbilical cord had been cut, but the baby was strong. Having inherited her mother's beauty and raven black hair, whilst her father supplied the eyes, she was an intimidating creature. At long last, the man with red eyes picked up the newborn babe and held her aloft to the small number of people gathered in the room.

"This is my daughter," He hissed, "born from human, elf and snake, and shall be named Morseregriel, 'She who is crowned with blood and darkness' in her mother's ancient tongue".

And so it came to be that a peredhil was born into the world of men. And with that one so unusual, came also a power, stronger then ever before, forged by the fruits of the ancient alliance.

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_Translations_

_Morseregriel_ (mor-se-reg-ri-el) – literally maiden garlanded with blood and dark.

_Peredhil _– half elf


End file.
